Lily's Tale
by PastSelf
Summary: I just finished the first BioShock game for the first time, getting the happy ending. It touched my heart and I just had to write this.


**Lily's Tale**

I remember his hands around me as I thrashed and wailed. He was holding a gun, but he put it away as he picked me up. I slapped his hand away, pulling at his arm and crying, but he persisted. His hand brushed my face and I felt warmth seep through my veins, filling my body and sapping the cold that had filled it for so long.

I had been cold for as long as I could remember.

My mind was free and I stood. The man's face was concerned. The gun was back in his hand. I could see Mister Bubbles behind him, and the man who had hit me, but they were both angels. Or both demons. This man… this one was alive. He had done something to me and the voice was gone. That voice that had told me to dig further with my needle to grasp the precious red drops, the one that would not let me sleep at night – he had taken it away.

"Thank you," I whispered, bobbing a curtsey and pressing my hands together. "Thank you for helping me."

And the man smiled.

I became shy and ran for cover, climbing up through my hole and into the network of tunnels inside the city. Mama Tenenbaum knew this man. She knew that he had saved me. I would go to her and join the Others. I would tell her what he had done for me.

He was our savior.

I just knew it.

* * *

I remember his face as he lay on the bed, pinched and troubled. "Is he an angel, Mama?" I asked Mama Tenenbaum.

"No, darling," she said in that strange, twirling voice of hers. Her hand rested on my head and I leaned against her skirts. "He is alive, but we need to help him."

"He saved us," said one of the Others.

"Yes," agreed Mama. "Now, God willing, he will save us all."

The man's face was creased, pinched with thought and worry. He had just found out a secret, Mama Tenenbaum had said. A most terrible secret. He was one of us, the patchwork children of Rapture. He had a voice in his mind, too, but it was one that whispered invisible words. Words that could only be heard through actions, and those actions he did not always want to do.

There was anger in his face as well. Desperation. I could see that in the faces of some of those who hurt me. Those who wanted what was in my needle. But those had been the only emotions. This man had sorrow as well. So much sorrow.

"He _will_ save us all." My voice was soft, but I knew Mama Tenenbaum heard it. I had spoken with conviction enough. "He is the one."

* * *

I remember the sound of his wrench calling me out of my hole, guiding me out the same way I would guide him to the Angry One. I did not want to go. The Angry One was mad at Mama Tenenbaum because he could not control Us the way he controlled the ones who hurt. The way he had once controlled the man.

Mama Tenenbaum had given the man new clothes so he looked like Mister Bubbles. He smelled like him, too. Like fire and heaven. His voice behind the mask was also like Mister Bubbles, but I knew it was him. They might do what they liked to his clothes, his smell, and his voice, but he was still the savior with the secret smile and troubled sleep.

I led him through the passageways, up and around strange corners, and into wide rooms. The mean ones came and tried to hurt me, but he turned them into angels. I could see them glow once, then they were gone. Pretty things, I tried to catch them, but they were gone too quickly.

I handed the man my needle. He would need it to take down the Angry One. He could not do it alone, but I could not help him more than this.

I did not want this one to become an angel.

Not this one.

I remember seeing the Angry One fall. The man had pierced him with my needle four times, and we much more than that. He had no blood, and now he had no Adam. He was no angel. He was a demon. And now he was only a hollow shell.

The Key was in his hand – a bright, golden thing. I knew what it was. I knew what it did. I had seen the Ruler use it, and then the Angry One. All the mean ones bent to the will of the Key. I took it. I did not know how to use it, but I knew of its power. Now all of that was in my hand.

I held it out to him.

He reached out to take it and for a moment I was frightened, flinching away, reminded of the mean ones who reached out in such a way to take my Adam, the red fluid I had gathered up so willingly. But then he knelt and I feared no more. His helmet was gone. He looked like Mister Bubbles no more. He didn't even smell like him anymore. He had the face of one of Us, wide eyes, pleading for me to trust him.

So I did.

I handed him the Key.

* * *

I remember seeing the sun for the first time. The metal ball had risen like a bubble and the door swung open, displaying the sun in all its beauty. It was bright, brighter than any light I had ever seen. The water shivered and shone and the sky was bluer than the hottest fire. The sun warmed my cold fingers and my bare toes. I smelled salt in the air and felt the wind sweep across the ocean.

And I was afraid.

But the man smiled as he looked over the sea, looking as if he had just spotted a familiar friend. The low moan of Mister Bubbles sounded from his lips, but it was a moan of pleasure, not of dread or anger. He stepped out onto the stone stairs by the city's over water entrance, looking back at Us. His smile flickered when he saw Us – saw how afraid we were. He held out his hand.

The world was so wide, so frightening, but if he was not afraid, if he was there with Us, nothing could harm Us.

I placed my hand in his and took the first step.

* * *

I remember the smell of the house he bought. The fresh cedar planks, the smell of paint. There was a window in every house because the man did not like fake light.

We each had a bed, far cleaner than We had ever had before, and lots and lots of toys to play with. No needles.

The man's voice still sounded like Mister Bubbles. It would for the rest of his life. Instead of talking, he wrote to Us. Mama Tenenbaum had taught Us to read, and in this way he spoke. He asked Us what We wanted to be called.

We spent many days deciding. I think I took longest of all. The man gave me books to look at with many people, pointing at each picture and then pointing to their names, but none of these suited me.

Finally I found a name, but it was not in a story book. It was growing by itself, surrounded by green shoots. A beautiful white flower.

 _Lily_ , the man wrote.

And so I became.

* * *

I remember the man dreaming of the things he had lost. The people he had never known, the false memories the Angry One had planted in his mind. I heard him at night sometimes when pouring over open books. His tortured voice would moan through the house and make it sound as if it was full of ghosts. The Others would look at one another, but none of Us would go in to him.

If he woke, in We would troop and see the man's face drenched with sweat, his eyes wide and wet, his covers twisted and tangled in on themselves. I might touch his hand, but he would flinch, ashamed to be seen in such a state. We would climb up onto his bed and touch his face, wishing We could draw away his torment with such a motion the way he had drawn out Ours. He would gather Us up against him, placing his wet cheek on Our hair, stroking Us on the back.

We would try to comfort him, but still the nightmares would come. We knew. We got them as well.

* * *

I remember working hard to learn. The man was proud of me when I learned much. That bright red 'A' on a page brought him so much happiness. He would celebrate with me and the Others whenever We brought him an 'A', and sympathize and help when we brought in a lower letter.

I got many, many high letters, and I went away so I could earn even more. I longed to be like Mama Tenenbaum, head full of knowledge, voice full of kindness. When they handed me the rolled-up paper and shook my hand, I knew my goal was complete. The Others were watching in the crowd and so was the man. His eyes were not dry, but he was happy, I knew.

"Have I made you proud?" I asked, taking his hand. My dark robes trailed against the ground and the silly tassel kept getting into my eyes. I swept it away so I could stare into his face.

His only answer was an even larger smile and a soft palm cupping my cheek. Proud? Yes. Yes, a thousand times over, yes. But I knew it would not have mattered to him even if I had failed. I was still his girl and nothing would ever change that. Proud, yes. More loved? Impossible.

I threw my arms around him, almost crushing the paper in my fist. For the moment, his were not the only eyes full of tears.

* * *

I remember the ring slipping onto my finger, my new husband's smile bright and shining like the sun. How could I have known that there was such a love as this? I never would have known if not for the man.

There he was, dressed in suit and tie, out in the audience. His eyes were full of tears again, but he could not stop smiling. He liked my new husband. He had given his permission. He had even helped pay for the ring.

My second kiss was for him, right on the cheek. A teardrop took its place a second after.

"I don't love you any less for loving my husband," I whispered in his ear. He pressed my hand, telling me he understood.

The Others came around me, then. Trilling. Congratulating. Telling me that I looked like a lily myself in my white dress. Some of Them already had husbands of their own, and one already had a child. I would still be one of Them until the end of my days, and being surrounded by Their good wishes I felt more secure than I ever had before.

My husband drew me away and kissed me again. My heart was overflowing. Bursting. I was bubbling over with joy.

In the background I saw the man walk away and I waved a final time to him. I would return. I would always return to him. Always.

* * *

I remember my little girl beside me, holding my hand as we walked the well-trodden path down to the river. She was about as old as I had been, then, but none so pallid or gaunt. She was a beautiful creature and I could hardly believe that she was real. Her laugh was like the tinkle of bells and my husband's eyes shone from her face with a light that equaled the stars.

I loved her. I had once wondered if there would come a time when I would reach a point where I could not love any more. Well, if there was a limit to love, I had not touched it yet. My heart seemed to swell with every new addition, every new person to love who came my way.

Back then in the dreaded city there had been no love. Nothing but hurt and hate. Now, although there were dreadful things outside, I had friends and family who loved me back, those who would help me through these troubled times. My husband. The Others. The man. And now here beside me my little daughter.

I still thought of the dark times. A child's mind was only resilient to a point. That point had been crossed many, many times. My husband had to hold me down some nights because I would not stop thrashing at the air. My daughter would wonder why her mother wept at the sight of the sea. Only the Others would truly understand. The Others and the man. Only those who had seen those dreadful sights, only those who had gone through it with me could understand. My husband tried as best as he could, but he could never fully soothe the ruffled memories.

The man could. Some days I visited him. I brought my daughter with me and she crawled up on his lap, playing with his fingers. She was startled by his voice the first time, but she adapted well. He loves her as well, and I love him because of his love for my daughter.

Is this the way he felt for me? What a strange new light I saw him in now. How much closer this made us. Even though we were not born from him, we were his daughters. He loved us the same way I love my little girl.

I placed a kiss on his forehead and saw his smile again, that same tentative, wistful smile grown suddenly content. The darkness which sometimes grew in his eyes was gone, now. He smelled like cigarette smoke and garden earth. My daughter – his granddaughter, I suppose – played on his lap.

The two of us enjoyed the peace in that moment for as long as it would last.

* * *

The man lay on the bed, eyes mostly shut. Many needles pierced his skin, but these were the good kind, spreading nourishment to his ailing body. Every breath was a rasp and every movement painful. I could almost see the angel, like I had when I was young.

The Others were all around him, seated on chairs. None were crying. They had known from a young age that death was something that simply happened, and when it came to claim you there was nothing you could do. All had rings on Their fingers, now, but Their husbands were not invited to this sacred place. This joining of Sisters for one final meeting.

We held his hand. It was weak now. Once it had been strong, vengeful, doing the deeds that needed to be done. Now its work was over and it lay on the pristine sheet, feeble and drained. The ink of the tattoo on his wrist was faded, but We still played our fingers across it as we had when We were little, tracing the links of the chains, now – finally – about to be broken.

"Daddy?" one of Us whispered, and his hand twitched, the thumb feeling out and pressing each hand in turn. We relaxed with the slight pressure, leaning back in Our chairs but never breaking contact. If the beloved name still evoked a reaction, there was nothing to worry about.

A time came when the machine beside him stopped beeping and the noise it made became a continual buzz. One by one the Others left, whispering, "Bye, daddy," as they kissed his cold forehead. I was left alone, feeling his hand grow steadily more frigid. The nurses and the doctors were looking at me, but they had not asked me to leave just yet. They need not have worried. I would leave, but not before a final word.

I stood and kissed him on the cheek, much as the Others had done. I almost wished him to breathe, but I knew it was better this way. One last time I whispered, "Thank you." Then again, "Thank you for saving me."

I bobbed a curtsey from the doorway, much more gracefully than the one I had done the first time we met, taking a last long look at Our savior, pale and quiet on the bed. Still at last.

Then I left.

 **The  
** **End**


End file.
